I went to our church’s after service Bring a Dish Dinner on Saturday. After gathering a small sample from the variety of food brought I sat down at the table with about 12 parishioners. We are a multi-cultured and multi-faceted sometimes too complacent group who regularly attend Saturday services. At times, as we eat, conversation involves  politics, the sensational headline of the week, who said what to who or whom or the rantings of verbal word hogs, who cannot or will not shut up.

I sat at the table, sampling the variety of food brought and sipped at my half filled/half empty cup of wine. The conversation was lively with advice on handymans, cats and animal behaviourist, wine, why such and such wasn’t recommend for such and such and then BAM out of nowhere…

Parishioner #1-“Hey, did you go to the salon? Your hair looks short.”

SILENCE

Me-“Yes. I went to a curly hair salon”.

SILENCE

Parishioner #1-“Oh. Well its short.”

Parishioner #2-“I thought you were wearing a wig.”

Me-“I’m not wearing a wig. I went to a curly hair salon.”

Silence, and change of subject as I extinguished the hot lava of verbal words not appropriate for church from my vocal chords.

My hair, normally tied captive into a puff had gone through its emancipation from the cotton bandana the week before during a visit to the Devachan salon in NYC. It was finally free to curl up into tight corkscrews drenched in the best moisturizer (Devachan One) that I EVER, EVER, EVER used and the most expensive condition I EVER, EVER, EVER bought.

It was worth it, and not like Loreal .

Since I did not have the emotional strength to relay the trials and tribulation of having the hair which no advertisers for commercials will show swinging in the breeze during prime time television-I use this forum to vent.

In pictures…

This was my hair on the ‘creamy crack’ when it was long.

This was my hair on the creamy crack when it was short.

This was my hair in locks..boy how skinny I was back in the day. Maybe this is the start of another post, ‘This is my body when…’

This was my hair all gone.

This is my hair growing back.

This is how I hid my hair when it was growing back.

This is my mom’s hair which in no way shape or form resembles mine.

This is my hair, now…in its puff-a-souras glory.

This is my hair when it is wet…I wish it would look like this when its dry-actually it does look like this !

This is my hair when we run.

I once had blonde locks before it was in vogue, as well as a Gerry Curl in all its goopy, dripping glory that left its own gelatin calling card behind on every headrest it encountered

My hair as I stated before, represents who I am and where I come from and I do not apologize for its refusal to fit into what society’s obsessiveness with European looks wants it to be.

‘nuff said.